


Un-titled.

by garnetsblue41



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alive Hale Family, Fae Stiles, Fairy Godfather Stiles, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Murder Husbands, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9801869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnetsblue41/pseuds/garnetsblue41
Summary: Stiles isNot. Happy.Seriously—Note. His.Italics.Because Stiles has just been stripped of his title as Scott’s Fairy Godfather, and after four hundred years of service to the Neutralisation and Management Entity for Theoretical and Obscure Networks (A.K.A. NeMETON), his career is finally crumbling down around his pointy ears—glitters and sparkles optional.All at the whims of this precocious, pretentious, insufferable littleman-child,who thinks he’s got the fuck-all to stick his snooty nose where it’s not wanted, then blackmail Stiles into endorsing his plans for world domination.And he has the gall to accuse him of being sensitive when Stiles sets him on fire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Name:** Stilinski, Mieczyslaw; **Code Name:** “Stiles”.

 **Species:** Fay (Dark Elf; Spark).

 **Age (Range):** 600+.

 **Affiliation:** Neutralisation and Management Entity for Theoretical and Obscure Networks (NeMETON), Private Advisement Division; **Number of Years Active:** 420+.

 **Status:** Suspended (current).

 **Additional Comments:** Fairy Godfather License to be revoked, pending internal evaluation.

_Updated 2/17/2017._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/29/17 Take two.

Stiles loves his job.

He loved Missy, Jason, Bernie, Emma, Stewart, and every single one of his charges for as long as he looked after them, and even for a long, long time after they passed.

He loves Scott, now, just as much.

Loves seeing him grow.

He was still aching after his last child—who passed happily in his sleep, surrounded by his loved ones, thank god—when he received his orders.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it, either; Stiles had never been assigned a new charge so soon after a passing, but he’d fallen like an anvil the moment he first laid eyes on baby Scott, just like Deaton said he would, the crazy old coot.

Scott was only four then, and, when Stiles went to introduce himself, was busy entertaining himself by shooting around an empty corner of the kids’ playground, like a small, toddler-shaped missile, with _purpose._

It didn’t take long to acquaint themselves, and Stiles fell hard at the precious puppy-grin that lit up those gorgeous brown eyes when he thought he’d made a new friend— _for free!_ —and then again, when Scott offered him the warmest hug and the last candy in his pocket before he scampered off to his waiting, and bemused-looking mother.

From there, it was smooth sailing.

He and Scott had all sorts of fun, planning mock-battles, swordfights, treasure hunts, and even the occasional tea party—although, there was that one time when Stiles nearly had an aneurism because Scott just chucked a third of his stuffed-guests out his bedroom window and tried to follow suit in a fit of spontaneous recklessness, broken bones be damned.

(He’d been so, _so_ close. Stiles still gets palpitations just thinking about it.)

Every day with Scott was an adventure, and Stiles loved every second of it.

And when Scott began to lose some of his childish innocence—as all his babies did, eventually—growing too old, too _cool_ for imaginary friends, the loneliness was made bearable by the thought that Stiles was still there. _Stiles_ wouldn’t forget.

So even if Scott no longer saw him, no longer loved him, Stiles went right on whispering advice in Scott’s ear, murmuring subtle suggestions that Scott didn’t think to question.

(When Scott developed his first crush, Stiles had an absolute ball, throwing confidence powders, diluted pheromone extract, good luck charms, and blessings in Scott’s face by the barrels. Scott still got dumped, unfortunately, but Stiles comforted himself with the thought that he spared no expense. Literally. Stiles survived on one pre-packaged meal a day, living in this sad little hovel at the edge of town for the next six months.)

If anyone asked Stiles what he thought of his life as it is now, he thinks he would say he’s happy.

And he is.

This is where Stiles belongs: unseen in the shadows, looking over his charge as any dutiful Fairy Godfather should.

It doesn’t matter that his babies forget him, will _always_ forget him.

They don’t need to see Stiles for him to know they’re being watched after and, really, that’s enough for Stiles.

So, yes, Stiles is perfectly fine.

Or at least, he _was,_ right up until some crazy, psycho, whack-job of a werewolf decided that _his_ Scott was up for the taking—and bit him.

-

_Belch._

“Whew. ‘Scuse me.”

A nymph scowls at him from nearby. Stiles pays no mind to her, distractedly flapping a hand over his mouth as she sinks back into her tree with a flip of one glowing green finger over an equally glowing green shoulder.

Light elves. Dramatics. They go hand in hand.

 _And the sky is blue and the earth is round,_ someone, a redheaded-and-sharp-as-a-tack someone, had scoffed.

Stiles turns, sparing a brief second to lament the loss of a fun night out. Lydia can say what she wants. Those elves know how to party.

He steps over a twig before it snaps, huddling into the shadow of a tree before he’s spotted.

Any other day and Stiles might wink, cozy up with a stalk of honeysuckle and soothe any offended sensibilities with the promise of a good time.

But not tonight. He wouldn’t have made for a very receptive partner.

Stiles stills, peering into the leaves.

The wolf snuffles, nosing at the carcass of a small forest animal as it lies brutalized by its feet. It tears into the stomach, splashes of blood and guts and viscera soiling the grass even further, and Stiles’ fists curl as flashes of a larger, infinitely more precious target taking the brunt of the wolf’s rancid teeth dance across his mind’s eye.

Scott had limped home one night, Stiles recalls, pale and hurting. It had been a particular brand of hell on Stiles’ nerves, kicking him into a panic-induced frenzy; he’d had to use a good chunk of his reserves on a stasis charm, hoping to delay the change at least for a few days longer.

He didn’t leave until morning, fretting over the wound for the rest of the night—there had been so much of Scott’s blood in places Scott’s blood had no business being—but then the sun threatened to rise over the horizon.

Scott had school in the morning; it was time to leave.

Stiles stormed out of the house, wishing he could slam the door, before he sank into the seat of his jeep, seething and ravenous for retribution.

That was two days ago.

Stiles’ only regret is that it’s taken him this long to pin this bastard down. But he’s done his research. This area of Beacon Hills Reserve has been marinating in blood and insanity for going on three months.

The smell of rot is piercing, even this far from the clearing.

He just has to be careful. This thing’s smart enough to hide his tracks, but Stiles doesn’t plan on giving it enough room to figure out the best way to lash out when it discovers it’s been cornered.

It’s bad enough that Scott hadn’t been its first victim.

Stiles pauses briefly, recounting the day he’d found the bodies, some of them small and clearly prepubescent, too young to have survived the change even without the blood loss.

It makes him wonder how many other children are out there, having been left cold, hurt, and struggling at the edge of the road, scared out of their wits with no idea what’s going on. And they’re _kids._ They aren’t equipped to deal with the change, not without help, and Stiles seriously doubts that they all have Fairy Godparents to explain that monthly spurts of fur, teeth, and a supernatural level of aggression aren’t exactly par for the course when it comes to puberty.

But that’s what he’ll find out.

 _Once this is all over,_ Stiles vows, _I will find them, I will make sure they’re ok, and if they aren’t, then I will get them the help they need._

_I’ll teach them myself, if I have to. All of them._

Stiles fingers the bulge in the pocket of his coat.

 _Once this is all over,_ he swore to himself. For now, though-

He worms out a pair of pliers from the folds of his coat pocket. His charge had been gifted with a lovely set of rings two nights ago.

As faerie guardian and unofficial Godfather, it’s only fair that he return the favor.

 _Surprise, surprise, motherfucker._ Stiles grins, feral.

And lunges.

-

A pair of eyes, blue and biting like the moonlight, flickers within the gloom of the foliage.

“Well. That was interesting.”

A smile, keen but intrigued—beckons.

-

“Ugh,” he groans.

The blood clings to his skin, and Stiles scratches at the drying rivulets with a towel lest they dye the seat of his jeep on the drive home.

As it is, his clothes will never smell the same. Death has such a distinct _tang_ to it, unlike anything else.

He’ll have to burn them. It’s a good thing he owns a blowtorch.

Lydia and he get together sometimes, just to talk. Inevitably, the subject turns to his on-again-off-again relationship with pyromania.

His argument is the same every time:

_“Matches are so cumbersome,” he whines. “And a lighter is too tempting to forget to leave in my back pocket every time the neighborhood pixies draw another penis on my front door.”_

Lydia says he’s an idiot— _“unintelligent, pea-brained, and far too blasé with keeping your fingers intact for your own good,”_ are actually the words she uses. But Stiles stands by his opinion.

He looks down, picking the remaining bits of flesh from under his fingernails.

Right. He needs burn the body, too.

(What’s left of it, anyway.)

 _Blowtorch,_ Stiles gleefully reminds himself.

Stiles whistles while he works, packing everything he needs into one of the many garbage bags he’s brought precisely for this reason. When he’s finished, there is a neat row of black plastic bags, stretched to accommodate the weight of, well, _garbage_ , lying at the foot of his trunk.

He loads them inside, waving a hand toward the remaining carnage that lies behind him, and _breathes_ as a surf of fresh air resonates downhill, all remnant evidence of a macabre homicide now safely hidden away within the boot of his car.

He’s riding the final rush of adrenaline that comes with a fresh killing, and he suppresses the urge to giggle.

The bastard doesn’t deserve his respect, but he is dead and gone.

(Mostly. Stiles still needs to get his hands on that blowtorch.)

The least Stiles can do is offer up a bit of gravitas, no matter how counterintuitive that may seem.

 _Fuck._ He giggles. _Who am I kidding?_

Stiles slides onto his haunches, enjoying the blatant giddiness of the endorphins circling through his bloodstream. He feels _good,_ and experience says it’ll stay with him at least until the end of the day.

He looks skyward, tracing the way dark purple blends in with blue blends in with gold blends in with red.

Daybreak. It’s been a long night.

He grins, memories of the past night flooding his senses, and heaves onto his feet, ready to head out and home for another day.

The leaves rustle.

Stiles whirls around, grappling for the wicked machete still caked with drying blood and strapped to the back of his shoulders.

“Who’s there?” he growls, alert and suspicious.

“Normally I’d be inclined to open with a simple _‘good morning,’”_ a voice muses as a figure emerges from the shadows. “But it hasn’t been all that good for a poor, certain someone in those-“ a finger points to the garbage bags on the ground, “-bags, now has it?”

The stranger’s eyes flash, and Stiles grimaces, recalling just whose land he’d inadvertently trespassed while chasing down his target last night.

Stiles sighs. “Look, I’m not looking for trouble-“

“Oh, I’d say causing trouble is the least of your worries,” the man— _wolf_ —interjects. “And I’m sure he would agree.”

Stiles refuses to look at the bags behind him, even as the werewolf jabs his finger once again in that direction.

“It was justified,” he says instead, expression darkening.

“On what grounds?” the wolf asks.

He sounds curious, but not skeptical, and Stiles loosens his grip on the machete, though he doesn’t put it away.

“He bit my charge,” Stiles confesses. “Two, excuse me— _three_ nights ago.”

The werewolf raises a brow. “You’re a faerie. Fairy Godparent?”

“On my better days,” Stiles replies, a fond twitch of the lips decorating the bottom half of his face.

The wolf shifts to a relaxed stance, loose and easy. “We’ll need evidence, you realize.”

Stiles nods. “I’ll have a copy of my files sent to the Hale House by the evening.”

“Six p.m.,” is his deadline. _“Don’t_ be late.”

Stiles can’t resist. “Looks like it’s a date.”

The wolf smirks, crossing his arms.

“Peter Hale,” he offers.

“Stiles. No last name,” Stiles replies.

“Really?” Peter’s brows furrow; it almost makes him look like he’s brooding.

Stiles grins at the thought. “Not one I’m willing to give you at the moment.”

“It’s a cultural thing,” he adds.

Peter hums thoughtfully. “Well, maybe after our first date.”

Stiles snorts. “Don’t go placing any bets on that.”

Peter only smirks.

They part with that—(“Elf.” _“Wolf.”)—_ Peter slinking back from whence he came, and Stiles sliding into the driver’s seat, peeling away in search of the main road.

Stiles hadn’t expected to meet one of the town’s supernatural denizens. In all the years he’d been in Beacon Hills, he’d never run into them, ever.

Which is strange, now that he thinks about it. And statistically unlikely.

Stiles chews on that as he makes his way home.

 _I’ll be meeting a whole bunch of them this evening,_ is what he settles on, pulling into the driveway. _The rest will have to wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review at your discretion. Thank you:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take three.

Stiles pulls the lever to pop open the lid of his trunk, swinging by the garage to collect his toolbox in which lies the beloved instrument he’d been missing all morning. He heads for the basement, twelve moderately-sized garbage bags trailing in one floating assembly line behind him, and sacrifices a drop of blood to unlock the many layers of enchantments lining the steel door.

The lights blink on, and the faint whiff of jasmine tickles his nose as he makes his way down the stairs.

He likes jasmine. Pity it’ll only be buried under the stench of blood and death and cooked meat for the next several hours.

He sets his toolbox at the bottom of the stairs, stalking across the room to pull a long steel table from against the wall and roll it out to the center of the floor.

It’s a custom piece; four drains, one in each corner. _Hannibal Lecteresque,_ and perfect for the occasional body disposal.

Stiles doesn’t store the meat and eat it, though, _god no._ He’s just not that kind of fairy.

He retrieves the first garbage bag and props it up on the table.

He thinks it’s one of the legs.

He pries it open, dumping its contents onto the steel surface _(it_ is _a leg)_ , retrieves the blowtorch _(hello, honey, miss me?)_ , and sets to work.

-

The next few hours fly by in a whirlwind of hacking, slicing, burning—rinse and repeat. By the time he’s reached the last bag, it’s almost two in the afternoon.

He needs to check on Scott.

The school ends at two fifty-five, and he deliberates, debating what to do.

He shrugs. He’ll make this quick.

If he hurries, he’ll even have a few minutes to fix himself a sandwich-to-go, he’s _starving_.

He returns to the task at hand, ripping into the plastic wrapping when it refuses to give way.

The head is still dripping, puddles of blood seeping across the metal of the table even as a few stray droplets clink rhythmically onto the floor.

Stiles stands for a moment, drinking in the sight of this murderous bastard reduced to this: a bodiless head on his basement table, just waiting to be burnt to ashes. On an impulse, he bends down the few inches to eye-level—staring, studying the way he’s reflected through the murky depths of two once hazel-colored eyes now cloudy from death. They’re blurred now, blanketed by the characteristic sheen of human cadavers everywhere, and Stiles counts four or five punctured blood vessels that bring bright spots of color to the white sclera.

It’s a strange thing, he thinks, death. So permanent, where life is fleeting; so final, where life is a long line of uncertainties. And it is the universe’s greatest equalizer. No one stands more or less privileged when Death comes knocking at their door.

Stiles stares at it, the face utterly devoid of any sign of life, and feels… _vindication_.

He smiles, a toothy, vicious little thing, as he grabs for his blowtorch and watches him burn.

-

“What-” he starts, incredulous.

Stiles’ eyes go wide at the sight of the anomaly, before he scowls, shoulders stiffening, as he recognizes the insignia.

_Those lying asshol-_

He checks the clock. It’s two thirty, and he needs to leave. _“Fuck.”_

Stiles rattles out the incantation for petrifaction; it’s temporary, but it’ll have to do. Then he runs up the stairs, in desperate need of a shower.

He rushes out of the bathroom still wet and dripping, and rifles through the files in his study for most recent— _there._ He flips through the pages, searching and searching, and stops abruptly, honing in on the original copy of the Hales’ disclaimer of affiliation. There’s the signature down at the bottom: one hand print, half-human, half-wolf, frozen in the midst of the change.

He glowers. It’s a good thing they already made a date.

Snapping the file shut, he grabs the second copy before heading for the door. He’s late and Scott is his top priority, but he’s got questions.

_And they better have an explanation._

He pauses before doubling back, flying down the stairs of the basement and snapping a quick photo of the scene with his phone. They want evidence, he’ll give them evidence.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Stiles orders, the head lying open-mouthed and frozen near the edge of the table.

It says nothing, and he sprints back up the stairs, locking the basement door, then the front door, then the door of his jeep as he pulls out onto the asphalt.

Next stop: Beacon Hills High School.

-

He misses Scott by twenty minutes.

“Stupid, stupid,” he rubs a hand against his forehead, sighing, “ _Stupid.”_

Stiles shifts the jeep into park and opens the door. Scott may not be here, but there are two people who are.

“You him?” He’s heard the rumors: leather jacket, perfect hair, perpetually grumpy eyebrows—yup, this one is definitely Derek Hale.

“Doesn’t look like much to me.” Which means this must be Cora. The differences are more difficult to find than one might think.

Stiles scoffs, “You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart. I know I’m a bit on the shorter side, but I promise I make up for it with my big brain and loving personality.”

Cora snorts, crossing her arms, “Oh my god, you were made for each other.”

Derek grunts. “That’s him. Now can we leave?”

Stiles tucks their exchange into a corner of his brain as he gives the kid a onceover. He’s so much whinier than Stiles pictured.

“Mom- _Alpha_ wants to be sure you’ll be at the house tonight,” Cora says, ignoring him.

She rolls her eyes. “Can’t have you running away before we’ve made sure you’re not actually a homicidal psychopath.”

“Hardly gives me enough time to forget, I promised to be there last night.”

Derek stills, expression darkening.

“You’d be surprised,” he bites out.

He seems to go off in his own mind, and Stiles is no longer sure that this is just about him.

“Your brother has issues,” he says simply.

He doesn’t want to know. His hands are full enough without getting into the angst of a clearly disturbed beta werewolf.

Cora’s eyes flash as she bares her teeth in a grin, and Stiles backs off, hands in the air. Right, werewolves. So terribly loyal.

“You still have your proof?” she asks.

Stiles nods towards the back of his car. “It’s in the trunk.”

“Then we’re good,” Derek huffs, looking more than eager to get the hell away from it all.

The siblings turn, making to head out, when Stiles calls them back, “Before you go—I need you to look at something. Does this look familiar to either of you?” The photo he pulls out is the abridged version, zoomed in to show only the symbol and nothing around it.

“That’s the Hale family crest,” Derek says, brows furrowing. “How did yo-”

Cora elbows him in the chest.

“Why? What’s it to you?” She’s glaring at him, suspicious and vague.

Stiles approves. She has a good head on her shoulders, nothing like Sir Frump-a-lot, who’s doing a fantastic impression of a cornered porcupine.

He smiles, all innocence. “Just something I picked up on the side of the road,” he lies. “But I think I’ve got all I need. Thanks.”

He starts for his jeep, rummaging through his pockets for his keys, when a hand wraps around his wrist and _yanks._

_“Wait-”_

He twists, wrenching out of her grip with enough force to send her tumbling a few inches to the left with a small cry.

“Lesson number one in pack negotiations, kid,” he grins coldly, resisting the urge to punch her in the face. “ _Never_ touch another supernatural, and _especially_ not a dark elf.”

She’s clinging to her brother’s arms and Stiles pins her with a wary eye, heart pounding.

Derek had rushed over the second she’d reached out an arm ( _So he’s not completely useless,_ Stiles thinks scathingly). “It’s instinctual,” he explains to her quietly. “Physical contact between non-allies is generally an opening for close-range attacks.”

Cora fidgets, looking a bit guilty and plenty embarrassed, but when she stands she does so with a stiff upper lip and her head tall.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Stiles can admire her muchness. Not everyone has the guts to accept their wrongdoing and apologize for it so gracefully.

He nods. “Don’t go gearing up for a fight without the strength to back it up,” he offers.

He may have been too hasty. She's a child, and she'll learn.

She pouts and Stiles smirks at her until she straightens, growing serious again. “We need that photo.”

“Why, what’s it to you?” Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery (cf. Oscar Wilde) but all the two mini-Hales look like they feel is unimpressed.

“It’s the Hale family crest-” Cora begins.

“Is it?” Stiles cuts her off, looking pointedly over her shoulder.

Derek grimaces, shifting.

She remains stubbornly silent, hand outstretched but not touching— _good,_ he thinks—but Stiles only stares at her expectantly until she caves.

_“Yes,”_ she finally admits, exasperated. “So hand it over.”

Stiles smiles coquettishly.

“’Fraid I can’t do that. It’s part of an ongoing investigation, see. But don’t worry, I’ll bring it with me when I come over. We can braid each other’s hair while we compare notes and everything.”

Their twin scowls of annoyance still make him chuckle as he drives away.

-

He swings by the McCalls’ on the way home.

The bite’s effects have deepened. Scott’s not a full werewolf, not yet, but the change has progressed enough that Stiles needs to start making arrangements.

_And soon,_ he thinks, redressing the wound. He’s sitting near the bed as Scott naps fitfully, and Stiles’ heart aches when he sees the frown on his charge’s face where before there’d only been the peacefulness of a good rest. Scott’s forehead is damp with sweat: signs of a fever. His symptoms are growing bolder.

Stiles leaves like that, worried and uneasy, but there’s nothing he can do. The change cannot be stopped, and while he’d rather be here seeing Scott through the worst of it, there are a few things he needs to take care of first.

He gathers his things—sleeping powder, masking dust, diagnostic scrolls, and NeMETON’s Magical Aide KitTM—before heading out the door.

When he reaches home, he has just enough time to finish disposing of what's left in the basement before he trades his medical equipment for another look at his files. The head itself yields no more surprises and both original and second copies are accounted for, extensive summaries of the target’s profile and movements for the past three months listed neatly in chronological order.

“Check, check and…check.”

He corrals all the necessary documents into a pile, tying it off with a rubber band and sliding it whole into a bag.

He grabs his keys.

-

Stiles arrives at the Hale residence with five minutes to spare.

_Five fifty-five,_ he confirms, reaching over to snatch his bag of files and dismounting from the driver’s side.

He tries to be punctual, but today he’s made extra sure to really get here on time. With what he’s bringing to the table, he expects plenty of arguments and if it comes to that, he’ll need every little tool in his shed to keep everyone—and _himself—_ from blowing anything up through the crosshairs.

The _ding-dong!_ echoes through the wood of the door when he rings the bell. He’s expected, which means he can hear the unlatching of locks almost immediately after.

“Can I help you?” a woman, older than Derek but not enough to be the head of the Hale Pack, answers.

Stiles wonders if she’s being deliberately obtuse just to drive him off guard.

He maintains his politeness if only by a few wearing threads. “I know you’re not Alpha Hale, who is whom I need to speak with. Kindly fetch her.”

She growls, slighted, and there’s a striking resemblance to her siblings. “I am Laura Hale, her daughter. And I’m not letting anyone, especially not some _fairy_ through this door until he introduces himself. Now who the hell are you?”

Well, he tried.

“If your mother hasn’t yet told you, then she’s clearly refusing you the clearance to participate in this case,” he dismisses, pushing across her and through the door. “Now move it, _puppy._ Grown-ups are busy.”

He exerts only enough strength to nudge her aside, but she still looks startled at the force (that belies all of his appearances, he’s aware) until she recovers, snarling and marching towards him with claws extended.

Stiles isn’t worried. He’s noted another presence nearby ever since the door opened, and soon enough-

_“Laura.”_

Talia Hale, Alpha of the Beacon Hills Hale Pack.

Stiles considers her. She’s tall, short hair and a visible layer of fine muscle adding to the very real sense of power that emanates from her in droves. A few wrinkles bear the mark of her age, but she’s obviously in the prime of her strength, and from the word of mouth, she’s also a master strategist and a vicious negotiator, titles which none of her children have yet to achieve.

She’ll be an interesting opponent, he thinks.

“Room. _Now.”_ For now, he observes.

“Mr. Stiles, I presume?”

He returns her nod of greeting. “If you are aiming to groom her for next-in-line, I suggest you work on controlling that temper.”

She sighs, absently eyeing the doorway her daughter trampled through, fuming. “Yes, Laura is still very prideful. The folly of youth, I suppose.”

Stiles follows her line of sight. “You set me up as a test.”

“And I see you’ve helped yourself to the opportunity,” she raises a brow pointedly, referring to how he’d barged in through the human gate.

Stiles smirks—he may have been invited, but standard protocol would have demanded he await permission to enter. Then again, standard protocol also demands that the head of the receiving party should meet that of the visiting company in the case of initial contact.

This isn’t just about drilling an heir about her duties. She’s testing him, too.

Two birds with one stone. He’s beginning to see how she earned her reputation.

Stiles shrugs, unconcerned. “I take my chances where I can find them.”

“Life’s too cruel for us to afford any otherwise,” the Alpha Hale agrees, smiling. “Shall we?”

He’s led down the hall, through a series of tall archways and into what must be the front parlor.

“Please wait here a moment. I must apprise the council.”

She departs, briskly striding further into the house. Stiles takes her absence to look around. The house is more a mansion, really, light and elegant. It’s definitely spacious, no doubt to accommodate for all the short fuses prowling through the halls; werewolves are notorious for their hotheadedness, after all.

_It’s nice,_ is what he settles on. It’s just not Stiles’ sort of place. Which is just as well, since he’s not the ones living here.

_The view, though,_ he thinks, peering in awe through one of the large glass windows spanning the back wall and into the lines of the forest, _is phenomenal._

“Enjoying ourselves?”

Stiles whirls around at the sound of a voice, amused and mocking, and comes face to face with the wolf he recognizes as the one he’d met while…cleaning up, late last night.

_Peter,_ he recalls.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Stiles says, blank-faced.

And he hadn’t. It’s been awhile since anyone got the drop on him, and Stiles wills his pulse to slow, wondering if he’s gone a bit slow himself. Beacon Hills hasn’t been the most exciting town around but there’s an uneasy flutter in the pit of his stomach, and he promises to visit the nearest company-sanctioned training center as soon as possible.

“Elves live for several hundred years, correct? Maybe you’re getting on in your years.” Peter grins, sharply teasing. “Feeling old are we?”

Stiles scoffs. He’s only six hundred ten, thank you. “Or maybe you’re so beneath my notice that even my instincts fail to alert me of your existence.”

“Or maybe I’m just that good.” He smirks, and with all that self-assured arrogance, Stiles thinks scornfully to himself that Peter Hale should have been born a rooster in place of a werewolf.

“Is there a purpose to your being here?” he asks, irritated.

“No, I only came to immerse myself in your engaging wit and sterling personality,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m here for a reason.”

“…Well?” Stiles gripes when he says nothing else. “What is it?”

“I’m to bring you to the council. They’re ready for you.”

He exits, leaving Stiles to scramble for his bag and nearly trip over his own two feet. Stiles catches up quickly, glaring and thinking he should protest, but Peter sobers as he guides them down the halls and into a large conference room, and Stiles subsides with only a wordless gesture insulting his prowess in bed.

The room is filled by a total of ten occupants varying in age and comportment—all rise as Peter and Stiles enter.

Talia Hale, of course, sits at the head of the table.

“Good evening,” she begins, addressing the room at large. “As you all know, our usual meeting has been pushed to the following week in light of recent events. To that end, I’d like to introduce Mr. Stiles, who has functioned in the capacity of both prosecutor and executioner, and has elected to keep his family name off-record as a matter of faerie court practices.” She motions around the table. “Before we proceed further, let us first be seated. Mr. Stiles, please help yourself to the empty seat.”

There is exactly one empty seat, and Stiles sinks down into the plush leather even as Peter takes up a stance behind and slightly to the left of the head chair. He’s stationed himself without a word; his movements familiar.

Stiles wonders at the austerity of wolf pack hierarchies.

“For the past few weeks,” the alpha continues once they’ve all sat down, “a supernatural entity has gone around physically assaulting inhabitants of Beacon Hills, often fatally. We narrowed down the assailant as a werewolf due to the presence of a changing bite on each of the victims, whom we were all able to collect and anonymize for cause of death thanks to our sources at the police department and local mortuaries-”

Anonymize. They’d had to contain the leak in the supernatural community by concealing all evidence of an abnormal death from each of the bodies.

“-The files in front of you,” a few council members start sifting through the stacked pages, “contain all the relevant information we gathered on one Leonard Varnes, who was our main suspect. Varnes, however, took off soon after we lodged a pending warrant for his arrest with the Tribune, and we lost all scent of him.”

She nods at Stiles, ceding the floor.

“Which is where I come in,” he says, tossing his own, much thicker file onto the center of the table.

It’s picked up by the wolf to his right. “And who are you, exactly?”

“I’m the guardian of one of the living victims of Mr. Varnes.” Stiles swallows down a few choice comments. “I’ve yet to compile a list of similarly affected individuals, but I’ll be making rounds as soon as I’ve made sure my charge is settled and alright.”

“He’s human?” another council member asks.

“Was,” Stiles replies stoically.

“Then he’s a werewolf,” she points out. “He should be initiated into our pack.”

“Everything’s still up in the air. For now, I’ve got things in hand.”

She frowns. “If he’s a wolf, then he should be with us, where he _belongs-”_

“He is my charge,” Stiles says coldly. “And I will do what is best for him under my own judgment. This is not up for discussion.” Stiles ignores her displeased puffing, and says instead, “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here-”

“Then why are you?” a wolf, glancing at the offended woman still grumbling to herself, asks belligerently.

“I’m _here,_ because Mr. Varnes is no longer on the table. I disposed of him last night.”

He receives several restless looks. “You killed him,” the wolf growls again. “What's to say you aren't exactly like him?”

“I’ve operated only under strict evidence,” Stiles says, staring right back. “Phone records, paid receipts, and DNA matches to samples from multiple crime scenes, just to name a few. It’s in the file.”

Stiles looks around the room. Five of the eleven discounting himself, still look fit to bust a blood vessel. Two are bored. Three seem contemplative, measuring him up, comparing him to the idea of a cold-blooded killer.

(Granted it was justified, but still. Murder.)

Talia looks like she’s getting a headache. And Peter-

Stiles can’t suss out all the emotions through the blankness of Peter’s face, but one thing he can is _interest_.

“But the Tribune,” a younger wolf pipes up hesitantly.

“Knows what I’m due, as is my right as a Fairy Godparent of the offended party,” Stiles replies, gentling. At least this one doesn’t look like he wants Stiles’ head on a stick. “It’s all perfectly legal.”

“Then let’s talk details,” Talia interjects, attentive.

Stiles presents his cache of proof to the council, rerunning what he must have gone over a thousand times in the last three months. Leonard Varnes was one disturbed individual. He had his reasons: abusive parents, bullied childhood-

“So he’s not originally from California,” Talia observes.

“Iowa,” Stiles confirms, shaking his head-

Could have been all the corn knocking something loose while he was growing up in the middle of fucking-nowhere. But _nothing_ gave him leave to take his hurts out on innocent people— _on Scott,_ he thinks angrily.

Stiles concludes his report with a quiet stamp of his knuckles on the table surface, and fields any questions, even the useless ones, with indulgence. He feels a bit drained now honestly, prolonged time in a room full of stupid will do that. But they aren’t quite finished.

“Our next order of business,” Talia declares purposefully, closing the current file. She looks at him, settling her joined hands onto the table. “My children say you've acquired yourself an additional piece of evidence, Mr. Stiles. Apart from those already presented?”

“A piece that may be of significant value to us,” she adds, when he deliberates, deciding over just how much to tell them.

Stiles relents. “The indicted and executed,” he says, grabbing for an open file to tap at the face of a scowling Leonard Varnes. “I assume we are by now all familiar with the particulars?” He gets a few nods as he pulls out his phone and clicks at the buttons. “Exhibit A,” he says, sliding it to the middle of the table. “ _This_ \- is his pineal gland. Notice anything familiar?”

“T-that's the Hale crest-”

“What in the world-”

“Fuckin’- Are you saying that’s the bastard’s _brain-?”_ Oh, to be young and passionate again.

The conference room racks up in volume as its members scream and argue and groan in disgust at the photo of a decapitated head with its skull cracked open.

“Ugh, who would ever want to-”

“The hell is going _on-”_

Stiles is seriously considering letting them at it; it’ll be good for them to let off some steam around those poles up their asses and it’s just entertaining besides—headless chickens, the comparison has never been so apropos—but Talia Hale clearly disagrees.

She stands, planting her hands onto the table. And she _growls,_ low and menacing.

_“ **Enough**.”_

Her eyes, red the color of freshly spilled blood, flash brightly as a wave of coercive magic drowns the room in silence.

“…Mr. Stiles,” she says, eyes dimming. “Please continue.”

Stiles stares at her. She’s wrested complete control over the room with a single word, and he’s impressed beyond himself. Then she raises a brow, unabashed and growing impatient, and he reclines in his seat, smirking.

“The pineal gland,” he begins again, pointing to the ghastly photograph shining from the screen of his phone. “Do you know what it is?”

“For humans,” he says when he sees a few self-conscious fidgets, “it is a small endocrine gland that releases melatonin and moderates circadian rhythms. For supernaturals, however, it is also the region of the brain devoted to our powers: our strength, our speed, even our levels of aggression, to a degree, emerge from this localized area.”

He continues. “Furthermore, the pineal gland is responsible for any telepathic connections between clusters of same-species individuals. A collective merging of psychological wavelengths to a frequency unique to that population, in this case-”

_“Pack bonds,”_ a voice breathes with the realization.

Stiles starts. When he looks up, he sees _blue_ —two very blue eyes, belonging to the one person in the room who’s said nothing thus far.

“Correct,” he says, intrigued.

Clever intelligence shines from his eyes as Peter offers him a small quirk of the lips, pleased, evidently, by the attention, when someone speaks up, breaking the connection. Stiles looks away first.

“This is all very interesting, but will someone please explain to us how _this-”_ the man eyes the phone like it’s about to come alive and eat him, “-is relevant? I may have heard of a few indigenous tribes using their crests as a tattoo, or a branding scar, maybe-”

“But it’s always been on the skin. Never on some obscure backwater in the _brain,_ for moon’s sake,” his brother, twin, finishes.

There is only one true human in the room, seated immediately to the right of Alpha Hale, and he speaks up. “There is a little known fact about werewolves,” he muses. “The pack’s family crest is magically carved into the pineal gland during the transformation process. It can occur either at conception or the point of viral transmission, but it’s there and it’s stuck for as long as you remain part of that pack. You can adopt a new crest once you make your way into a new pack, but.”

The human gains a few scornful looks, clearly not welcome by everyone in the Hale pack, and Stiles snorts to himself at the irony.

_Prejudiced idiots._ “The part you all want to know so badly is that it fades mere minutes after you expire, hence the lack of popular opinion.”

“So how did _you_ find it? Or anyone else, for that matter?” a werewolf argues disgustedly.

“There are certain charms and spells that will petrify the body, and consequently the brain, which keeps the crests from dissolving,” Stiles replies; he’s reaching his quota for mindless hostility, very quickly. “The spells need to be applied before or near the time of death by a certified faerie or mage. There are case studies. Precedent.

“As for me- it’s a preliminary course in my company’s training requirements. It’s just habit, now.”

“What you are implying is ludicrous, _boy,”_ an older wolf says derisively.

“Go stuff your piehole,” Stiles replies calmly. That done it.

Talia intervenes, _“Gentlemen.”_

She sighs.

“Mr. Stiles, I can personally assure you that the Hale Pack has no affiliation with this criminal.”

Stiles takes a breath. “I know. I performed the autopsy myself. At first, I thought you were just covering your tracks, trying to bury the crimes of a valued member or something.” Werewolves. So _loyal._ “It wasn't until I'd spoken with your kids that I began to suspect otherwise.”

“Derek and Cora?” she asks. “You only met with them this afternoon.”

“Pack bonds can't be masked. Or faked, not the real ones. And neither of your children were lying when they didn't recognize this photograph.”

She has questions, Stiles can see them forming in her head, but it’s getting late. “Everyone knows everyone in a wolf pack. It's crucial to the harmonization,” is all she says.

“They could have been lying,” Peter offers, having missed, or blatantly ignored that memo.

“I spent less than half an hour with them and even I know those two can't pull off subtlety to save their own skins, let alone outright deception. I wonder what that says about you?” he asks, irritated and tired.

Peter’s brows rise at the accusation, and the grin he wears is knife-edged. He motions to speak, lips parting, when he’s interrupted by his sister. He recedes for the moment, eyes glinting.

Talia glares at them both. “Back to the point. So we now have a murderer by proxy-”

“It’s more than one,” the lone human injects.

Stiles agrees. There is little chance of this being a one-man show, not when things are being kept so successfully under wraps even now. If someone was running around looking for equipment to magick up a family crest into someone else’s brain, they would have left a trail, and Stiles would have found them.

Talia nods, amending, “A murderer, and potentially an entire organization of criminals seeking to pin their crimes, the extent of which by current records include the deaths of three-” she pages through Stiles’ file, “- _four_ humans and one supernatural, on the Hale Pack. And who knows what else.”

“They’re operating on our grounds. In Beacon Hills,” someone says, finally looking concerned.

“It’s possible they may have committed similar crimes across cities. _States_ ,” another adds.

Talia agrees to both, face grave. “They are a danger, not only to us, but our children and livelihood. They could very well be working towards revealing the entire supernatural community to humans.”

“A magical revolution?” the youngest wonders aloud. “It’s been centuries since the last one went tits up, hasn’t it?”

“And yet it is now a very real possibility,” she eyes him until he sinks in his seat, chagrined, before she turns, satisfied. “Mr. Stiles, have you identified any suspects yet? Names, faces, current addresses?”

“I've only had two hours,” Stiles says, brows creasing.

Talia inclines her head, smiling. “So your research does have its limits, after all.” The alpha claps once, concluding, “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, and for ridding us of a truly heinous murderer-” Her face grows distant. Polite. “-However, this is a matter of pack security, and I would like you to-”

Stiles straightens abruptly.

_“No._ No, you are not shutting me out of this. This is my find. My case. My charge is currently suffering through the change, through no choice of his own, and whoever's behind this is at least partially responsible.”

“This is Hale business,” the woman who’d griped at him earlier so nicely informs him.

Stiles keeps his eyes on the Alpha. “I stay and we cooperate, or I take all of my _research_ and go it alone. Your choice.”

Talia seems to consider his words carefully, weighing the pros and cons of tangling with a faerie out for vengeance.

Finally, she nods. “I believe we have ourselves an accord.”

Stiles answers with a curt nod of his own before gathering his things, stuffing them back into his bag. “Good. I'll leave you the copy but I'm keeping the original. My number is listed on the first page. Call me if you find anything.”

He rushes out of the room after that, more than ready to leave the mess of interspecies relations behind him. A set of footsteps stampede after him, trying to catch up. Stiles speeds faster but careens to a stop when the figure—who has longer legs than Stiles, goddamn it—plants himself right in front of the door.

“Mr. Stiles,” the human begins.

“Love to stop and chat, but I really _can’t._ Doctor’s appointment,” he deadpans, not even trying. (It’s pitch black outside.)

Stiles dives sideways, aiming to squeeze for the exit, but is only thwarted when the man takes a step in the same direction and he nearly faceplants into his chest.

“What.” Stiles growls, looking up.

“Mr. Stiles,” the man tries again. Stiles crankily compares him to a faulty media player. “Please. Just a moment of your time.”

Oh, lordy. He’s one of _those._

Every so often Stiles will meet someone who’s exceptionally… _clean_. They’re kind, earnest, and so very genuine that they make people flock to them and spurn them in equal measures.

He has a feeling Scott is gearing up to become one of these people. Yay.

Stiles eyes the man in front of him. Even his face looks like it makes people want to simultaneously swaddle him away from the ugliness of this world, and lynch him just so they don’t have to face all their sins by comparison. But Stiles has worked centuries with the most pitiful and most adorable puppy faces across generations _and_ species. It’s a good thing he’s immune.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he surrenders, sighing.

The man lights up like a holiday tree.

“Mr. Stiles,” he begins again. _Faulty media player,_ Stiles rolls his eyes _._ “I could not help but see- You seemed to carry a measure of disapproval towards my children's lack of…cunning, so to speak. I would like to know why.”

Then he goes silent while looking so stupidly hopeful, and Stiles struggles not to let his surprise show as he recalibrates his mental profile of Brian Aebel-Hale, Alpha’s mate and second-in-command of the Hale pack, to a _human_.

An insanely affable human, apparently enough to draw the attention of a younger Talia Hale. But-

_It’s none of his business._ Stiles tries to keep that in mind as he rewinds to the question he’s being asked to answer. “I am neither omniscient nor a mind reader,” he says once he remembers. “I have no interest in telling people how to raise their kids.”

“But you’re a Fairy Godparent, aren’t you?” Brian argues. “To a Mr. Scott McCall, I believe-”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “I’m warning you now. Keep Scott out of this.”

Brian backpedals, even taking a physical step back to convince Stiles of his sincerity. “My apologies. I mean no harm, you have my word.” He doesn’t strike Stiles as the type to lose his composure, but he looks ready enough to wring his hands from distress now. “I'm just looking for some advice. They’re my _kids_ ,” he says pitifully.

“Look,” Stiles says, massaging his aching temples. He needs sleep. Badly. “I know it's hard, being a parent. The world isn't as safe as you'd like it to be and you're constantly worrying about them, hoping against hope that you're doing something right and that they won't grow up to be a crazy serial killer.” He thinks of his charges, past and present. “You want to protect them, and I get that. Trust me, I do. But keeping them in the dark- You can't shield them from everything, and once you accept that, then the next best thing is to prepare them. Teach them. Make sure they can stay alive, long after you're gone. That's the best you can do. That anyone can, really.”

Brian’s eyes are a bit glassy. Stiles chooses not to notice. “Derek mentioned his past?”

“No,” he denies. “And I don't know what happened, but from what I’ve seen, he's still hurting. Talk to him, or get him to see a psychiatrist, if you can't. But make sure that if whatever happened happens again, he'll be able to pull himself out.” He smiles, reminiscing. “At least until you can get there to make it better.”

Brian runs a hand through his hair. His shoulders slump, and he laughs modestly. “You must think I have it so easy. Yours can't even _see-“_ he stops.

“I-I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to…”

Stiles shrugs, hiding his bitterness. “We all have our troubles.” They enter an awkward pause until he braves, “Listen, it was great talking to you—kids, parenthood, the whole shebang. But I really should get going. I haven't slept since Saturday, and I still have to make the drive home-” he trails off.

Brian moves aside hastily. (Finally.) “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Would you like someone to drive you? It would be no trouble-”

Stiles winces, shaking his head. “No. No, really. I'd rather just take my jeep, but thank you. For the offer.”

Brian smiles then, amused, Stiles supposes, at his ungainly bumbling. “Like I said, it's no trouble. But yes, whatever makes you comfortable.” He holds the door as Stiles steps outside. “Thank you for coming today, Mr. Stiles. We'll be in touch if we find any new leads.”

“Same here. Have a good night.”

Stiles makes the drive home in a haze, the lack of sleep finally catching up to him. The next morning, he’ll remember nothing of feeling watched and studied as he unlocks the front door and stumbles inside. He hops his way to the bedroom, leaving a string of fallen articles on the way there; when he makes it to the bed, he’s sans his bag, his pants, shoes, socks and shirt.

He climbs in, pulling the perpetually rumpled sheets under his chin. He’s out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're just getting started.  
> Please leave a review at your discretion. Thank you.


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